


A tiger by its tail

by counteragent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/pseuds/counteragent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hasn't been drunk in a long time. He and Sam haven't done this in a long time, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A tiger by its tail

“Dude, you’re not drinking that. You’re still an invalid.”

Dean pronounced it “in-valid”, drawling out the syllables obnoxiously and plucking the shot glass from Sam’s hand. Hardly any of the amber whiskey sloshed over the side. He’d only had three beers.

“I’ve felt fine for months.” But Sam played along. He indulged Dean with a quirk of his mouth, gesturing back at the woman who’d ordered them the shots. The redhead sat at the end of the bar, her long legs and high breasts more than making up for a soft middle. Sam gave her a “what can I do?” look that was supposed to be charming but really looked constipated. Dean snorted in surprise as the woman hid her smile behind the curve of a wineglass. Sam’s poop-face worked. No accounting for taste.

Dean downed Sam’s shot, followed by his own. He hadn’t had much of the hard stuff lately—nothing like detox in Purgatory to scare you straight—and the burn was weirdly unfamiliar. He managed a manly _hrrumph_ but it was nearly a cough.

Sam swung back to face Dean, his eyes hitting the empty glasses first, then rising along with his eyebrows: _you sure about that?_ And yeah, Dean might regret it tomorrow--beer before liquor and his ass was gonna hurt from tumbling off the wagon--but there was a need forming in the back of Dean’s mind. It was a tiger pacing its cage, restless. Dean wasn’t sure if the alcohol was to pacify or rile it.

Dean gave Sam a steady stare. “You, me. Darts.”

Sam held his gaze, and for a minute Dean thought Sam was gonna dig in, apply himself to winning the latest round of Dean-so-has-feelings chicken. But Sam merely narrowed his eyes, and signaled the bartender.

“He’ll have another.” Sam gestured to Dean for the bartender’s benefit, then leaned over. His breath bent the hairs on Dean’s neck. “Just give me a few minutes, OK?  And drink up.”

Sam slid off the barstool, punctuating his last words with a clap to Dean’s back. Dean should refuse on principle, but that would telegraph that Sam could raise Dean’s hackles over something as dumb as another drink. Plus there was the way that Sam’s low, quiet voice had set the alcohol alight in Dean’s veins like a fancy dessert. Dean hadn’t heard that tone for a very long time.

Of course, maybe the tone was for the girl, and Dean had just caught it a beat too early. Sam engaged her easily, trading names and indicating Dean in with a clear “he’s my brother” grimace. Dean saluted briefly, businesslike, and couldn’t help but approve when the woman barely spared him a glance. Dean would do the same, if Sam were standing that close to him.

A glass appeared in front of Dean. The tiger slowed.

They’d been pretending that neither of them knew what sex was for over a year now. Ever since Dean came back topside and realized Sam had slept soundly and warm each night in a king bed while Dean caught solo catnaps, scraping his ass on pine needles. Benny had offered, his eyes warm beneath that ridiculous hat, but Dean let him down easy every time. Dean had had his hands full but he’d carried a torch right through monster hell.

Dean let the alcohol slide down his throat, the prior shots’ anesthesia smoothing the burn. The tiger resumed. Its fur brushed along the bars of the cage as it paced.

Sam’s face was alight in a way that seemed only half faked. He had even dug his hands out of his pockets for the occasion. He rested one on the bar, long fingers bent in descending hills like a tiny mountain range. The redhead laughed, raising her chin to bare her throat and expose her cleavage. It was a good move; Sam’s gaze dipped too low for polite conversation before he snapped back to the clinical white of her smile.

They had struggled on together, him and Sam, and just when Dean’s anger had cooled enough to crust over, the trials started. Sam was _Sammy_ again. His little brother needed his help, and no way was Dean gonna be creepy uncle in that scenario, even if Sam had been up for it.

And now, well. Zeke was eight days gone, and Sam was cured of everything but his complete ignorance of how and why he’d been healed. His ignorance of the second time Dean had bartered both of their souls to keep Sam with him. So far, so good, right?

Dean looked down at his empty glass. Its facets cracked the room’s light into pieces. The tiger stopped pacing. It waited.  

Sam had leaned in closer to the woman, turning away from Dean. It was a clear set-up for a “I know somewhere quieter” line.  Dean fixed the back of Sam’s head in his sight. He was a target, a gamble. Dean would count to thirty. Just that, half a minute. If Sam didn’t turn, then Dean would ninja out of there, let Sam rediscover how great pussy was (again). If Sam did, Dean would fire—a slow smile across Sam’s bow, a warning shot that the redheads of the world had some competition.

Sam turned.

****

Sam closed his eyes and threw. The dart thudded home, bullseye.

“Bullshit,” Dean challenged. “You had to have been looking.”

Dean’s fourth whiskey was introducing itself to his fifth beer—the tiger paced on—and Dean grinned sloppily as he muscled Sam off the mark (three crushed peanuts and a cigarette stub) to take his turn. Sam chuckled as he stumbled back, giving ground with the grace of an assured victor. Dean hammed it up, throwing two at a time, spinning in a 360 before letting them fly. Both hit in the inner circle, but neither dead center.

“Best five out of seven?” Dean said.

“I’m disarming you,” Sam said, cupping Dean’s elbow with a hand and guiding him toward the door. It was a move straight out of 2007, when Sam was picking Dean up from bender after bender while his deal ticked down. The year Sam found Dean’s bucket list and decided that “fuck a guy” meant “fuck my brother” and Dean was unexpectedly on board with that edit.

It was ridiculous; Dean was the kind of guy— _exactly_ the kind of guy—who could wield a samurai sword straight-up plastered. He didn’t need an escort. But there was time enough to set Sam straight later. Call it nostalgia, but Dean wanted to enjoy the moment.

Dean shrugged off Sam’s help, as expected, and Sam replaced his hand immediately, also as expected. He upped the ante with a hand at the small of Dean’s back, too.

“Handsy,” Dean muttered, trying for censure but sounding slightly appreciative.

The bar was walking distance to the motel, but it might have seemed far in the sparkling cold of the late fall night. If Dean had been sober. But the alcohol was as good as a magic spell against the chill, especially with Sam there to shove and hustle against.

“You’re staggering, man.”

“I’m trying to trip you up.”

“Nice. Well, it’s not gonna work. You know that right?”

 “I never quit, Sammy.”

“Uh huh.” Sam managed to sound deeply unimpressed, almost bored, while spinning Dean around and shoving him up against the Impala. Dean’s head thunked back in surprise, dinging off the frame almost hard enough to hurt. Dean’s brain sloshed around.

“Ow, bitch.”

“Shit, sorry,” Sam laughed, and kissed him. “Sorry, sorry,” Sam continued, nuzzling Dean’s neck, rooting through the layers of collars to nip and kiss. It felt so good, Sam’s chilly nose warming by the second and Sam shaping words just for him.

Sam’s hands were on Dean’s belt buckle before Dean remembered the tiger in the shadows.

“Sam,” Dean breathed, and then he hissed when Sam opened his fly and worked his pants down a little, baring his dick and a stripe above his ass to the cold. The icy burn of the Impala focused Dean’s hazy brain for a second.

“Sam, we gotta,” Dean’s dick put up a good fight, urging Dean to shut the fuck up, “talk about something.”

“OK, after.”

And then Sam’s warm mouth was on him, his long fingers gripping the shaft of his dick and cupping his balls. The contrast to the fall air was shocking; the wetness from Sam’s mouth became pain as the cold air hit it, only for the spot to be soothed again by Sam’s tongue and lips seconds later. The push-pull was distorted by the alcohol, amplifying until it was a rushing tide in his mind, Sam’s waves stroking a thirsty beach. It washed him clean of footprints, shoved the flotsam of his mistakes away, creating a clean layer of sand. Dean soaked Sam in, letting him fill the space between grains.

Dean came, and Sam drank him down. The snarl of the tiger was lost in the sound of the sea.

Dean was still spread eagled on the beach, basking in the sun, when Sam dragged him off the Impala and propelled him forward. He covered his junk by instinct, saying “hey!” even though it was only a few steps to the door.

Dean managed to tuck himself back in while Sam keyed the door. The bastard actually had the nerve to stop and fix Dean with a stare. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, his voice dark and his eyes locked on Dean’s pants.

And then the door was swinging open and they were both crowding in and Sam was immediately backing Dean toward the bed. The back of Dean’s knees hit the mattress and he went down in an ungraceful foooph. Sam was falling with him, landing neatly over Dean, holding himself up on long arms before dipping down to fill Dean’s mouth with his kiss.

“Do,” kiss, “you,” kiss, “not want to?” Deeper kiss, like Sam was hellbent on stealing Dean’s soul through his mouth. To Sam the question seemed rhetorical; he got busy shoving Dean’s still-open pants and boxers down to his ankles and then kicking them off with his feet.

And maybe it was. Dean did want to. His dick might be spent, too satisfied and too drunk to respond. But his heart was swollen with feeling for this moment, creaking against his marked ribs and pushing on the inside of the ink he shared with his brother. It was a sweet rot. Beneath the layers of decay between them, there was that something beautiful and shining that anchored them together. Tonight they could carve it out again, pushing away bone and sinew and layers of Dean’s treachery and hold it up to the light. If Dean just could keep his mouth shut.

Dean’s mouth opened. The tiger’s claws pealed like bells as it scratched against the bars of the cage. It would be let out. Dean would tell Sam _now_. Sam would know who he was offering himself to. That Dean was and had always been a false idol despite the sacrifices he demanded. The tiger roared in triumph, and Dean felt it in his bones.

Sam was unzipping his own pants, a little smile playing on his face like he couldn’t believe he was getting this lucky. He stopped for a beat to catch Dean’s eyes on him. Slowly, he smiled. The expression beamed pure, besotted. The room seemed brighter and Dean didn't want to dim it, ever.

Dean closed his mouth and spread his knees instead.

****

Dean woke in a blind panic, riding shotgun in the Impala. He felt terrific, no trace of hangover. That could only mean:

“Zeke?” Dean said to the man driving the car. He kept his voice neutral. He had to be careful.

The man’s eyes slid over to him and Dean’s heart stuttered at the complete lack of expression.

“What do you remember?” the man asked.

Dean remembered Sam. He remembered Sam holding his fingers steepled together at the end of the bed, Dean asking Sam "are you _praying_?" and Sam laughing loud, his hair flopping around just like it always did.  
  
"I'm warming them," Sam said, before pushing his fingers inside Dean.

He remembered Sam filling him up slow, going easy at first despite his obvious need. Dean relaxed into the alcohol; it was a slick buffer against the nerves that might have tangled the moment.

Dean remembered slurring, “You planned this,” and Sam saying, “Yup,” before letting out a long groan of pleasure.

“OK,” Dean had rejoined, because damn, it really had been. Sam was thrusting in smooth, pulling back and then doing it again, bending Dean how he wanted him. The drag of Sam inside him gave Dean hope that he could be hollowed out, refilled with a purer history. Sam was biting his lip and staring at Dean’s open mouth, eyes glossy with affection and pleasure. Sam was so glorious like this, unshackled, larger than life. The shadows on the wall behind him outlined the stature of his tan, broad shoulders. Dean heard their breathing synch up and he gave himself utterly.

Sam came saying, “God.”

Dean remembered the feeling as Sam blinked at him through the afterglow, still inside Dean, their bodies joined. He remembered feeling cherished.

Dean remembered Sam saying, “Thank you, brother.”

And then Dean remembered shoving and pushing and fighting like a caged wild animal until Ezekiel subdued him with a touch.

Now Dean was sitting in a moving vehicle under someone else’s command. He settled on, “Not much.”

The man spared him a brief glance, then swung his eyes back to the road.

“Oh, right.” A bitter note crept into the last word, and for a short moment Dean began to hope. Not for himself, but for Sam.

“Let me tell you what _I_ remember. I remember losing time, for months. Months. So little of what you said added up that I started to think maybe you or I were permanently concussed. I remember coming to with the blood of vessels on my hands eight times—eight times, Dean—but not remembering how it got there.”

The pain in Sam’s voice broke Dean’s silence, “Sam—“

Sam slammed on the brakes and swung them onto the shoulder of the road. He faced Dean head on. “No, Dean! Let me tell you _what I remember_! I remember thinking I was drugged, that maybe someone was feeding me demon blood to keep me at fighting weight. And then slipping me mickey after mickey to forget. My list of suspects was short: the King of Hell, and my own brother.

“I remember,” Sam’s voice caught, “I remember thinking I was back in the Cage. And that Lucifer had finally figured out the perfect torture.”

Sam’s face was streaming with tears now, rolling down the statue-perfect planes of his face like rain over granite. It was different than his earthy, snotty cry and Dean’s heart didn’t know which reason it should break first. Dean stared, waiting for Zeke’s eyes to flash blue-white, or for Sam to throw Dean out of his life forever.

Sam wiped the tears away, steadied his voice. Excruciatingly, he looked Dean in the eyes, dead center, nowhere to hide. “I remember feeling great for the last week. Thinking maybe it had all been paranoia, that certainly it had nothing to do with you. You and I were…good.”

Sam’s gaze skewered Dean, silenced him. Finally, Sam huffed and gave an _I’m so stupid_ head shake.

“I just wanted us to be OK so bad. I thought maybe, get you a little happy, we could break the ice and I could get some answers. And maybe, you know. We could be…

“Well, anyway. When your buddy _'Zeke'_ realized you might finally tell me, he took over. But this time I noticed before he could wipe me clean. I guess he was. Distracted.”

A swell of black humor choked Dean. “You kicked him out while he was too busy angel sexing me?”

Sam coughed. “Pretty much.” He squared his shoulders and turned back toward the wheel, reaching over to throw the Impala back into gear. “We gotta keep moving now. He knows where we live.”

Sam’s tone was cold again, removed. Either he was just still monumentally and righteously pissed off, or. Or.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? That Zeke is really out of there?”

Sam didn’t even spare Dean a glance. The landscape whirred by, too fast to get any bearing. The road stretched out in front of them, an endless repetition of exit-here-for-unsolvable-problems, exit-there-for-horrible-betrayals.

“I guess you don’t.”

Next exit, 50 miles.


End file.
